Laissez le Bon Temp Rouler A Dorian Gray Fanfic
by KodyKrypt
Summary: Dorian Gray, the anti hero of Oscar Wilde's novel is back, this time in the new world with a rude cajun native, Naomi Delacroix. Actual Dorian Gray fanfic, not one based on the book. Don't read if you're a purist
1. Chapter 1

**AN: this is my first serious fanfic, guys, and I'm going to treat it as a serious story. I'd really like constructive criticism, such as if Naomi is sounding too much like a mary sue. Thanks!**

"Oh, Damballah," I moan, writhing about the circle in the center of Lafayette Cemetery, trying not to snicker and give the ridiculously clichéd voudou ritual away. It isn't as if I enjoy ruining the whole point of voudou, but with the unemployment rate skyrocketing, and the whole getting laid off by a misogynist boss debacle, this is the only thing paying my rent at the moment. Aged 33, and I'm already whoring myself out for cash. Though maybe, in the current state of affairs in our united states, maybe I started late on this whole false advertisement thing.

After all, tourists don't really want to see a real voudou ritual, they want possession and agony and sex and blood. And my boss, Andre, a New Orleans native was fine by that. 20% of my tips from the tourists went to him, of course, and according to his business philosophy, 'it ain't pimping if they enjoy it.' Or something similar.

Jah, my partner-in-crime walks over, making contorted faces that to outsiders looked like possessions, but I know is him trying not to scratch at the Halloween grade makeup covering his face, making him look like a skeleton.

"Kaliah," he intoned as I curved around, stretching muscles in my sides that had no interest in being stretched. "you have pleased Damballah. Damballah rewards his followers well." Jah continues, knowing as well as I did that, were this an actual ritual, Damballah would be giving hell. My writhing as though in the throes of lust wasn't a Damballah approved act. The lwa actually preferred offerings in the form of rum, cigarettes, cigars, and small cakes. On an altar. That was blessed and used correctly.

Wrapping a red scarf around my waist, Jah's face twitches again, sweat running down the heavy makeup on his forehead. I hope my makeup doesn't look like that. It's not ghoulish Halloween makeup, just grade A makeup, and I had spent an hour applying and correcting it. And no it wasn't just for the ritual. The makeup application everyday commonly takes an hour or more, as I try to achieve perfection. Hard to do in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, even worse so if you have oily skin and eyelids.

I smile at Jah, hissing, I hope appropriately. And just like that, the pseudo-ritual was over. Thank god. The tourists, mostly from the Midwest, or up north, dropp bills and coins into Jah's overturned baseball cap lying on top of a nearby tomb.

"Shit Jah." I tease under my breath. "Could you have been more obvious about it? I mean I know your makeup sucks, but as Andre says, real actors work through it."

"Shut up Naomi." Jah says in his regular voice, a pleasant cadence very different from the heavy Barbados accent he uses during our little show. "Could you have been more slutty? I mean dear lord, Josie Arlington herself would blush. Also, have I mentioned how awful Kaliah is as your stage name? Come on girl, I mean just come _on_."

I brush dirt off my spotless white dress, inspecting the hem. "Dammit. Gotta bleach this again. Have I mentioned how much this rain sucks? Look at my dress. Practically brown."

"I'm glad I'm not a woman." Jah hands me a fistful of bills. "Get on home, miss Delacroix, before I sic Papa Legba on you."

"You wouldn't." I laugh, shaking my head. "See you tomorrow. You got cleanup right?"

"Yeah yeah, just get on home. It's dark out and them tourists and shit get drunk round this time of year. They think New Orleans is a free for all. Be careful."

I wave, walking out of the cemetery gates, trying not to shiver at Jah's words. It's true. During Mardi Gras we get lots of tourists who get real drunk and make Las Vegas look downright saintly. Which reminds me. I have to go stop by the St. Louis cathedral tomorrow, buy some more candles from the priest.

As I saunter down the sidewalk, I can't help but notice how quiet it is around the voudou shops and bakeries, and 100 times more alive at the bars, at least at the one on the back way I've chosen as my route. Typical Mardis Gras time, though hardly a scene we natives like to see.

I'm 98% cajun French, AKA boogalee, if you believe the slang, 2% Irish somewhere in there, but all New Orleansian. My family hasn't moved from Louisiana since our family got here in 1796 from France, bringing the Delacroix family name and fortune with us. We populated quickly, and intermingled, breeding like rabbits. Odds are, if you see a pale person with dark brown hair that looks black at times and gray eyes with hints of green in Louisiana, you're looking at another member of the extensive Delacroix legacy. Native New Orleansian's such as myself tend to get hissy around tourist season, and who can blame us? Tourists take over and pollute the city with drunks and druggies all looking to blend in and get a kick out of our party scene.

Like the group of frat boys I see right now, laughing and stumbling down the sidewalk towards me. I look down, trying to convey _not interested. _But, of course it doesn't work. When does it ever work?

"Hey! Hey you there! Bob cut!" a blonde kid barely out of high school, with a build like Arnold Schwarzenegger's shouts, referencing my no fuss short haircut. "Hey, c'mere! We wanna…shh! We wanna see if Storyville is still…" he pauses to burp. "…alive and well! Hey!"

I walk a little faster, cursing myself for walking home tonight.

"Hey bitch!" the blonde yells, turning to face me, leaning in so close I can smell the absinthe and beer on his breath. "I'm talkin' to ya!" he backs me up against the wall, eyes trying to focus on my face. His buddies gather around, cheering him on.

"Now…slut…whass it gonna be?" he slurs, shaking his fist at me, not noticing the way I'm looking around. Damn, no one in sight. Again I curse my habit of taking quieter back streets. "You gonna come with us? Or we gonna have to force you? Hey! Bitch you listening to me?" he shouts, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look into his bloodshot baby blues. "I asked you…whass it gonna be!"

"How about this option?" a voice calls. But it's not like the loud jeering voices that still keep going. It's refined. And fucking English accented. Rare. Of course, a gentleman trying to help. Maybe it's one of those tour guides. "Let her go or I blow your brains out. Sound fair?"

"The hell?" my blondie asks, wheeling around to face this skinny little guy, maybe 6 feet tall, with curling chocolate brown hair touching his shoulders, dark eyes, and wearing a…velvet frock coat? Oh lord. At least the gun is from this century.

Blodie roars with laughter, and without missing a beat, punches the Victorian guy in the nose at that precise angle needed to kill somebody. The crunch of bone is like the report of a rifle in the night air. Victoriana stumbles, falling to the ground.

Shit. Maybe I should've listened to Jah this time. Blondie here ain't screwing around when it comes to fighting.

"Ok bitch. You gonna go now?" he asks, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. I nod, trying to flatten myself against the wall, lest a similar nose crunching incident occur to me.

Just as blondie is roughly grabbing my hand, his head jerks sideways in a spray of blood and nasty bits. Let me tell you, the term gray matter is quite inaccurate. It's more white.

Victoriana is standing there, holding the semi automatic gun, watching dispassionately as blondie frat boy falls like a tree, thudding onto the ground. "Timber." He says, eyeing one of the buddies. Who promptly pisses his pants and high tails it back down the street, followed by the rest of Omega Phi Delta or whatever they are.

This skinny guy -whose nose doesn't even look scratched, let alone shoved up into his brain- turns to me, his eyes giving me the once over. And by the looks of it, he's not impressed.

"Are you stupid or just drunk out of your brains?" he asks, finally meeting my gaze.

**AN:good, bad, what do you think? Let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.**__**  
><strong>__**-Oscar Wilde**_

Victorian guy stares at me expectantly, ignoring the dead body lying between us.

"I'm not drunk, and I wasn't thinking." I say defensively, scooting backward from this guy with the gun. Guys with guns in New Orleans are hardly the type of person you want to be around.

"I can tell." He scoffs, gesturing at my still dusty dress. "Get back from a ritual?"

"No. I got back from my office party. I'm a psychologist; I work down by Royal Street." I say, feeling that familiar pang as I mention my old job. I loved being a psychologist, it took my mind off my own problems. But throw a misogynist boss who thinks psychology and psychiatric jobs are for people who can '_handle their emotions'_ AKA men, into the mix, and next thing you know, you're out of a job.

"What's with the mud?"

"I fell!" I snap, crossing my arms. '_Mon dieu_, We done playing 20 questions yet? I'd like to get home now."

He shakes his head, the silky looking strands of coffee colored hair practically dancing with his movements. "I'd feel better if you called a cab."

"You're not my mom."

"No but I am a gentleman." He snaps, almost in my exact tone. "My name is Dorian. Gray. Dorian Gray. What's yours?" at my stubborn silence he rolls his eyes. "I just saved you from getting raped. The least you could do is tell me your name."

"It's Naomi. Delacroix. Naomi Delacroix." I mimic his wording, glaring at him. "And I didn't ask you to _kill_ him."

"I'm amazed you care so much, since clearly you are in hysterics over his body." Dorian points at blondie. "Come on, there's a café just down this way. You can call a cab."

I almost move, but pause. "Who's to say you're not going to try and hurt me?" crossing my arms, I stare him down, the adrenaline rush starting to fade just a bit, making me wary of Gray.

"Yes, I just shot a man who was trying to rape you so I could rape you. I assure you, you are quite safe with me. Where's that Southern politeness I keep hearing about? You all are so angry here." He shrugs, placing the gun in a holster on his belt, then clasping his hands before him, the very image of a saint. Sighting loudly, I step forward.

"Let's go. And stay on the _banquette_, Mr. Gray." I point to where he's standing in the gutter. "This ain't Colorado. If you get run over for standing in the street, here it's your own damn fault." As I squeeze by him and cross to a balcony with Romeo catcher pillars a few feet away, he stares quizzically at me.

"What's a banquette?"

"First of all, it's pronounced bank-et, not ban-quet. Second of all, it's the sidewalk. Next thing you know, you won't know what an po-boy is." I grumble, waiting for him, knowing how much of an ungrateful bitch I must sound like.

As we fall into step, he keeps looking at me.

'_Mon dieu_, what is it, Mr. Gray?"

"I'm not French nor am I a…creole. Creole's the French or Spanish one, right?-"

"Oh my dear sweet Semedi…"

"So I have no idea what you're talking about. Po-boy…what does that one mean?"

I stop and face him. "I'm Creole, you at least got that one right. Po-boys are big sandwiches that are so big, it's said they could feed an entire family. It's poor boy, without the –or." I almost throttle him. How can you not know what a po-boy is! They're world famous! "Do you know what andouille sausage is? How bout café au lait?"

"I do know the last one. I'm not a 5 year old, Ms. Delacroix. I'm just non-native." He sighs, walking ahead, practically speed walking in his haste.

Scoffing inwardly, I jog to catch up. "So, you stalking me or something? Cuz most people avoid this area."

"So should you."

"Thanks mom. Seriously, do you just enjoy being a hero or something?" I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Does it get you off?"

"You sound so much like Oscar…" he mutters, shaking his head. "And after being such a dastardly villain for so long, being the hero isn't a bad idea."

_Did he just say dastardly? Out loud and seriously? Oh wow, _I think, secretly impressed. Hard not to be impressed by Dorian. He's…hot. Very hot. And he's really charming. Hasn't smacked me across the face for being rude to him, though I can tell he's contemplating it.

Dorian startles me out of my reverie by pointing to a tiny French style café. "There you go. Go inside and call a cab. I'll wait here, make sure you don't prance off and tempt fate again."

"Ok, that's it, I'm 33 freaking years old, Gray. I know I don't act like it, maybe that's just a failing of mine, like the makeup and Café au lait addictions weren't enough. And the cynicism and sarcasm and utter hatred of my job, which is doing fake voudou rituals, _thank you verymuch, _but I am 33 and dammit I'm not going to skip off after _almost being raped. _Thanks for saving me and all but you and your fucking condescending gentleman's attitude can go now!" At the end my voice has risen to practically a screech, and I know I'm over exaggerating, Dorian's been nothing but patient over my tantrums. And he did actually lead me to the café and didn't hurt me. I should be on my knees kissing his-

I look at his shoes, and do a double take. Ok, Dorian here is not tour guide. Call me odd, but I have a large knowledge of shoes, and Dorian is wearing Salvatore Ferragamo, vintage style, which go very nicely with the Victorian suit. No way am I kissing these thousand dollar babies.

"My face is up here." He says mildly, bending down a bit to look me in the face, tiny smile on his face.

Well. He's smiling. That's new. And I kind of…like it…

**AN: I don't really like this chapter, but the next one will be better. More French-Cajun slang, and from Dorian's point of view. Also I got some faulty info. Naomi is indeed creole. I was told it was the people from the Carribean.**


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